Today's poet

[david]

From one of the great poets of our generation....

And here's another from the Bard of Barking:

The Few

At night the Baby Brotherhood and the Inter City Crew
Fill their pockets up with calling cards
And paint their faces red white and blue
Then they go out seeking different coloured faces
And anyone else that they can scare
And they salute the foes their fathers fought
By raising their right hands in the air
Oh look how my country's patriots are hunting down below
What do they know of England who only England know

From the stands of the Empire Stadium
Come the heralds of the New Dark Age
With the simplicities of bigotry
And to whom all the world's a stage
These little John Bullshits know that the press
Will glorify their feats
So that the general public fear them
And the authorities say give 'em all seats
And the wasted seed of the bulldog breed
Is shouting here we go
What do they know of England who only England know

Our neighbours shake their heads
And take their valuables inside
While my countrymen piss in the fountains
To express our national pride
And to prove to the world that England
Is just as rotten as she looks
They repeat the lies that caught their eyes
At school in history books
But the wars they think they're fighting
Were all over long ago
What do they know of England who only England know

And the society that spawned them
Just cries out Who's to blame?
And then wraps itself in the Union Jack
And just carries on the same
Oh look out, my country's patriots are hunting down below
What do they know of England who only England know

[Old Whippet]

Good old Billy. One to have in my head if I watch question time tonight.
I've just come across this thread (thanks Freckle). Some great stuff here. Hope it keeps going...

[Hanneke]

Hope is the thing with feathers...

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

[Mossdog]

Here's one about comeuppance (and so much more!)

The Hawk

On Sunday the hawk fell on Bigging
And a chicken screamed
Lost in its own little snowstorm.
And on Monday he fell on the moor
And the field club
Raised a hundred silent prisms.
And on Tuesday he fell on the hill
And the happy lamb
Never knew why the loud collie straddled him.
And on Wednesday he fell on a bush
And the blackbird
Laid by his little flute for the last time.
And on Thursday he fell on Cheat
And peerie Tom’s rabbit
Swung in a single arc from shore to hill.
And on Friday he fell on a ditch
But the questing cat,
That rivel, rampant, fluttered his flame.
And on Saturday he fell on Bigging
And Jock lowered his gun
And nailed a small wing over the corn.

George Mackay Brown

[Hanneke]

Nice Mossdog

[freckle]

Hope is the thing with feathers...

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

Love this Han...one to remember in the middle of a race when feeling groggy!

[freckle]

Here's one about comeuppance (and so much more!)

The Hawk

On Sunday the hawk fell on Bigging
And a chicken screamed
Lost in its own little snowstorm.
And on Monday he fell on the moor
And the field club
Raised a hundred silent prisms.
And on Tuesday he fell on the hill
And the happy lamb
Never knew why the loud collie straddled him.
And on Wednesday he fell on a bush
And the blackbird
Laid by his little flute for the last time.
And on Thursday he fell on Cheat
And peerie Tom’s rabbit
Swung in a single arc from shore to hill.
And on Friday he fell on a ditch
But the questing cat,
That rivel, rampant, fluttered his flame.
And on Saturday he fell on Bigging
And Jock lowered his gun
And nailed a small wing over the corn.

George Mackay Brown

Mmmmmm, need to ponder the meaning of this one me thinks!....thanx

[Hanneke]

It is good, this thread...

Another interesting female poet is Lynette Roberts...

Past Syrian Juniper and tall grass;
Hanging with dark secrets the Brewer's spruce;
The pond that drew the young child in;
Among darkening leaves: a nightingale
Sobbing in the sunniest season,
'My love, my Love, why do I love another?'

To the green wood where I found my love;
To the green wood where I held my love;
To the green wood now my love is gone.

[freckle]

It is good, this thread...

Another interesting female poet is Lynette Roberts...

Past Syrian Juniper and tall grass;
Hanging with dark secrets the Brewer's spruce;
The pond that drew the young child in;
Among darkening leaves: a nightingale
Sobbing in the sunniest season,
'My love, my Love, why do I love another?'

To the green wood where I found my love;
To the green wood where I held my love;
To the green wood now my love is gone.

Han this is so gorgeous...i enjoyed it very much....thank you...long live this thread (hope thats not the kiss of death!)

[freckle]

ps han you will be pleased to hear that as a direct result of joining FRF I am doing even less housework (if that's at all possible)...:-) tee hee